Wesley Wyndam-Pryce

Since his conversation with Tara on Friday, Wesley had been spending most of his time lost in research about whatever was happening to the multiverse, and thus far it was inconclusive. Book after book had proved unhelpful, so finally, exasperated, he picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.
 
"This number has been disconnected," reported the recording on the other end of the line. "Please hang up and dial—"
 
How odd.
 
Well, he tried to rationalize, it wasn't as though Mr. Giles had ever been entirely savvy with technology. He tried Willow's number instead, doing his best to ignore that creeping wary feeling that was rising to the surface.
 
( Willow's chipper voice answered, and for a moment Wesley foolishly felt reassured. )

[[door and post open]]

Wesley was going hunting with Katniss later, which fell under the category of Probably A Date, How Weird Is My Life Right Now, so he was getting dressed. Suffice it to say that his hunting clothes were not all that similar to his normal clothes. Normal clothes were button-downs and slacks and sometimes a tie (ahem, Valentine's Day Dance). Hunting clothes were apparently sweatpants, which he didn't even know he owned until he did some digging through his stuff, and a T-shirt that he usually wore to bed. So.

Once he was dressed, he opened the door just a bit and sat down, idly drumming his fingers on the bed.

That was what he was doing when the aghast face of a nine-year-old girl popped up in the hall.

[open! feel free to pop by if you feel like meeting argumentative lilah-child, zomg]

Wesley hated his cell phone for two reasons. One: it was large and bulky and he could not figure out how to work it. And two: Whenever it rang he knew he was about to hear something unpleasant come out of his father’s mouth. Especially when it was the wee hours of the morning and Wes had been hoping to sleep in, but of course it was late morning in England and that was all his father cared to think about.“Hello, Father,” he said dully. 

And, okay, he always tried to be a good son and all that, but he was privately amused by how remarkably predictable his father could be. Roger Wyndam-Pryce was not the sort to bother with small talk or asking how Wesley was doing unless his intent was to criticize in some way. It turned out that today was not one of those days.

“Wesley. Your mother wants you home for her birthday.”

Abrupt and to the point, and unabashedly upholding the well-known fact that it was never Wes’ father who wanted him home – just his mother. Whose birthday was in three weeks.

“I see,” said Wesley, waiting for some kind of qualifier, like he can’t go because his grades aren’t good enough or he wasn’t polite enough when he answered the phone.

“There’ll be a portal set up for you tomorrow at one o’clock, boy. Do your best not to miss it the way you did several years ago, as they’re really quite expensive to create.”

Those “several” years were actually eleven, when Wesley missed the portal to an alternate dimension his class was studying at the Watchers’ Academy. He had been five at the time, and yes, his father had to pay for a new portal to be created.

“I’ll be sure to catch it, Father,” he said dully.

“See that you do.” And Wesley was about to end the conversation when his father added, “Oh, and boy? I was informed that you hit the shoulder of a target in your marksmanship course last week. Next time, I’d advise that you aim more carefully in order to secure a fatal wound.”

Wesley took care to say his goodbyes pretty quickly after that. After hanging up, he slumped on his bed, completely annoyed. Three weeks at home was not something he was looking forward to at all. Because while he’d been doing quite well in his marksmanship class and had managed to at least tolerate his self-defense class, his father would obviously find something about his performance at Fandom worth extensive criticism. Plus there was that whole thing where it hadn’t been that long ago that he’d completely embarrassed the Watchers’ Council and allowed his charge to try to help a giant snake destroy the world. That was always worth criticizing.

He started packing his stuff, enjoying how much lighter his luggage was after he’d unloaded a dozen books on Tara the previous night. Which meant that he’d have less to do while hiding away in his suite at home, but at least he wouldn’t have to fall over when carrying his things to the portal. Probably. Not.

[establishy for a three-week AFK, but cabinmates or visitors or whoever are free to overhear the call or see Wes fall over with his bags if you want.]